


Roswitha

by quercus



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-05-01
Updated: 1999-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:05:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/quercus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully investigate poltergeist activity in the North Bay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roswitha

"Your breast fed looks good," says the man standing next to Mulder. He turns to look at his companion in surprise, and follows his gaze across the room to Scully. "Are you guys an item?"

Mulder feels a surge of emotions, of which anger is only a part. Biting back several comments, he pushes himself away from the wall they're leaning against. "Yeah, we are," he says shortly, and navigates across the crowded room to his partner. Knowing that he's being watched, he gently places his hand against the small of her back, and smiles down at her.

She glances up with a welcoming smile, and then returns her attention to the man speaking to her. Mulder finally notices him, and thinks he's the gayest federal agent he's ever seen.

He's small and slight, but well-built; the arms emerging from the gray polo shirt he's wearing are roped with muscles. His coloring is similar to Scully's, although paler: light red hair, light blue eyes, light freckles across his snub nose.

They are, as is everyone in this packed bar, rehashing the case. An exciting take-down, worth millions, if not billions, of dollars. Russians smuggling jewels out of the former Soviet Union's Fort Knox had set up a complex and surprisingly open money laundering scheme here in San Francisco. Over a year in preparation, working in precedent-setting cooperation with the Russian police, the operation had caught local, state, and federal employees in activities they should have known better than to engage in.

Now Skinner, as head of the Criminal Investigative Division, is here, celebrating this overwhelming success. Mulder and Scully, along with dozens of his other agents, had been brought in six weeks ago to assist with the final preparations. Mulder hopes the spectacular success will help restore Skinner into the good graces of the Bureau. He's been through so much, lost so much, by aligning himself with Mulder and Scully's quest.

Mulder is finally drawn into Scully's conversation when he hears the world "poltergeist." He begins to listen more closely.

"I never would have believed in such a thing myself," the red-haired man confides, "if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Pots flying across the room. Glasses breaking. Chairs being overturned. I even felt --" and he drops his voice, so Mulder must lean closer to hear, "cold fingers against my face and in my hair."

Scully wears her polite, this-is-interesting look, and says, "Really?" as Mulder simultaneously asks, "Where?"

"About an hour north of here, in Sonoma County. I was just telling Agent Scully that, with your interest in the paranormal, you should go."

Mulder looks at Scully. She is smiling at him. Sometimes it's annoying how well she knows him. She turns her smile on the smaller man and asks, "Where in Sonoma County?"

He looks delighted. "Roswitha would be so pleased if you'd come up. Here," and he pulls out a slim wallet and extracts a business card, "this is her address and phone. Can I call her, tell her to expect you?"

Mulder takes the card, holding it so both he and Scully can read it. Roswitha Joller, M.F.C.C. Family counseling for gays and lesbians. The address is in Rio Nido. "Roswitha Joller?"

"She pronounces it 'yah-ler.'"

Mulder looks at Scully, who still wears that slight smile. He raises his eyebrows questioningly, and she says, "If Skinner will okay it."

"If Skinner will okay what?" their supervisor asks. All three agents greet him, then the red-haired man explains the Joller's difficulties with noisy ghosts. Mulder takes the opportunity to study his boss. For the first time in years, he looks relaxed, and as close to happy as Mulder's ever seen him. An international success can do that to a man.

Now Skinner's looking at Mulder, an amused glint in his eyes. He nods. "While we're here, let's take the opportunity to meet Ms. Joller. I've never worked on an x-file with you." Mulder hears Scully snicker softly behind him, and he smiles too, and nods.

"Please call your friend," Mulder says. "We'll be up tomorrow."

* * *

The three agents ride up to their hotel rooms together. Skinner still has the remains of a smile on his face; he's on an endorphin high of hard work and great success. He is also happy to have Mulder and Scully in his division again, after a long absence. He'd once thought the X-Files were a pain, but that was before he'd been saddled with Spender and Fowley. Now, Spender's presumably dead and Fowley's missing, and the X-Files have been almost miraculously restored to his friends.

He's taking a month vacation, effective immediately. His plans are to visit his family in Texas, do a lot of fishing, some reading, and maybe travel a bit. The impulse to accompany Mulder and Scully on an x-file is all of a piece with these plans. He enjoys their company, although he'd never admit it to a soul. Well, maybe to his mom. But their intelligence and quick wit, not to mention sleek good looks, make them enjoyable companions. Added to that pleasure is the thrill of watching them in action while on an x-file; the final fillip is the, however slight, possibility of witnessing poltergeist activity.

Scully is discussing the case right now; Mulder wears a face of long suffering, as if he's heard this argument before. "There is no credible evidence of non-physical entities, Mulder. Any pots flying or glasses breaking have to have been thrown or broken by somebody, by a human -- "

"Or someone who once was human," he interrupts.

"A ghost? I thought poltergeists were supposed to be manifestations of adolescent energy and anger."

"They are outbreaks of paranormal physical phenomena, often but not always associated with a discarnate entity."

"I don't even know what a discarnate entity is, Mulder."

"Having no body."

"I *know* what discarnate means; I just don't believe an entity can *be* discarnate. We exist as bodies, as flesh."

"Scully, you know that isn't true. When you do an autopsy, whatever made that person who he or she was is absent from that body." Scully doesn't respond; in fact, she looks away from him. "Do you believe you'll see your father again?"

She doesn't answer. Her mouth tightens in frustration, and she tosses her head. The elevator pings and the doors open; it's her floor. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mulder, sir."

As the doors close behind her, Skinner says, "You're never going to win that argument, Mulder."

He grins at his supervisor. "I know. But I think it's good for Scully to be forced to confront the limitations of her belief system." Skinner smiles in return, and shakes his head.

* * *

The drive north is beautiful, through rolling hills gilded by summer-dried grasses and topped by strange, dense oak trees. As usual for north bay mornings in July, a thick fog covers the region; they have to wear sweaters and keep the car's defrost on. The meadows glow with mustard flowers, and they drive past apple orchards, fields of alfalfa, and acres and acres of vineyards. Along Highway 101, they see llamas, sheep, and dairy cattle: Skinner recognizes Holsteins and Dutch Belteds. They stop for lunch at an Italian restaurant in Petaluma, former Egg Basket of the World, then continue to the Russian River exit. From there they head west, crossing and re-crossing the river.

Scully makes a quiet "oh," and leans forward. At first, Mulder can't identify what's surprised her, but then he realizes they're looking at redwoods. The trees are more than enormous; they dwarf the Douglas firs, eucalyptus, and California bay laurel far below them. They are so out of proportion to the rest of the landscape that the scene resembles a child's diorama of misplaced objects; a Ken doll looming over a Tonka truck. The tops of the redwoods disappear in the heavy fog.

They plunge into the amazing trees, into the dark, sweet-smelling mysterious gloom. Fog seems to be caught by the redwoods, and drifts across the road, forcing Skinner to drive slowly.

Rio Nido is not much more than a wide spot in the road. Scully has the directions to the Joller home; following her instructions, they turn off the main road onto Eagle Nest Road and begin driving up into the hills. The road is bad, deeply pot-holed and narrow; Skinner must drive even more slowly. Watching closely for oncoming traffic coming down the winding road, he misses the last turn off and has to cautiously back up and try again. The enormous Crown Vic he prefers to drive is almost too big for the steep road.

The road dead ends, and he parks behind an elderly faded lime green VW bus. It's covered in bumper stickers: "From 0 to 55 in 11 minutes"; "If you don't like hippies, next time you need a joint, call a cop"; and, of course, "McCarthy." The three agents climb out of the car and stand, stretching, smelling the spicy air. It's absolutely silent. Skinner shivers in the damp chill, and shrugs his jacket more tightly around him.

Mulder leads them around the bus, to a steep path of grey stepping stones. They follow them down and to the left, where they find a house hiding in thick oleanders, ferns, and rhododendrons. There's a dutch door, its top half open; Mulder raps gently on it and they hear an elderly male voice shout, "Just a minute!"

A man in his sixties or early seventies appears. He's pear shaped, cascades of fat visible beneath his layers of sweater and vest and shirt and tee. He has the booming voice of someone who has recently lost his hearing, and wears glasses that remind Skinner of John Lennon. "Yeah? You lost?"

Mulder identifies himself and his friends and adds that he understands that Ms. Joller is experiencing poltergeist activity. The older man snorts in disgust and bellows, "Rose! Rosie! Here's some more weirdos about yer ghost!" He half turns into the house, and Skinner sees a sudden slight movement behind him. From the distance, there's another voice, but the words are indistinct.

After a few seconds, a woman steps into their view. She's probably in her early forties, but she looks older; her hair is graying and cut unflatteringly in a bob with thick bangs. She wears half-moon glasses down on her nose and peers over them to see who's at the door. She, too, is dressed in layers of clothing: a long black skirt that dusts the floor, a denim blouse covered by a knitted rose vest, and a long, narrow rose scarf tied around her throat that trails down her shoulders.

"Ms. Joller? I'm Fox Mulder, and these are my friends, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner. We met a friend of yours who suggested we might be of some help."

"Of course, Mr. Mulder; I've heard of you. I've even read some of your work. It was kind of Frederick to ask you up. I could use some help."

"Are they gay, Rosie?" the older man bellows from somewhere in the house. Ms. Joller shakes her head in embarrassed dismay.

"I'm sorry. That's my father. He's -- difficult. But his bark is definitely worse than his bite. Please, come in."

Skinner studies the house carefully as they enter. Although the rooms are cramped and the hallway narrow, it's obviously large. Halls lined with doors run off in all directions; he thinks it would be easy to get lost. The furnishings are eclectic to the point of eccentricity. There seem to be a lot of clocks: on the wall, on shelves, in bookcases, on myriad end tables. All of them tell slightly different times.

There are vases and glasses and cups and urns full of cut flowers: roses and petunias are the only ones Skinner can recognize, but many other species glow in the dark rooms. The house smells sweet, herbal, slightly pungent. Smoky, from a fire. And of cinnamon, as if from baking. It's chilly, though, and Skinner wishes he'd worn another sweater.

Ms. Joller leads them into a large kitchen, where her father is making tea, and gestures for them to be seated at an enormous round oak table. Its surface is dark and scarred, stained with rings from hot cups and sweating glasses. The legs are heavily carved and rest on eagles' claws clutching balls. Skinner lovingly runs his fingers across the wood; it must be a hundred years old. Mr. Joller catches his eye and smiles before turning back to his task.

Ms. Joller opens the oven and pulls out a pan of cinnamon rolls. "Do you mind if I ice them? I should do it while they're warm. Then we'll eat them."

Skinner smiles beatifically. So far, this is a wonderful vacation. He leans back in the heavy oak chair and prepares to enjoy himself.

"While you're doing that, Ms. Joller, may I ask you some questions?" Mulder says.

"Please, call me Roswitha. And my father is Euel."

"Euel Joller -- isn't that a helluva name? Child abuse, if you ask me," the old man comments as he carries spoons and a large pot of dark honey to the table.

"Well, Roswitha hasn't been particularly easy, Dad, so be careful with the accusations of child abuse."

"And Fox -- what the hell kinda name is that, anyway? You don't look Indian to me."

"No, it's a family name," Mulder acknowledges, helping him set the honey in the center of the table. "Roswitha, what's been happening here?"

She turns from the cinnamon rolls, an icing-covered knife held high. "It's a long story, I'm afraid. It started over a year ago --"

"It started sixteen months ago," her father interjects.

"I first thought we were having a series of temblors. Something would fall off a shelf, or be moved slightly. But it just kept happening. We simply don't have that many earthquakes."

"Then she thought it was me, fooling her," Euel says. "But I got better things to do with my time than play tricks on folks."

Roswitha sighs. "I wish that were true, Dad. But it really isn't him. He often visits friends, and things happen when he isn't here. In fact, I started keeping a journal and found that things seem to happen more often when he's gone."

"I *told* you I wasn't doing nothing."

"May I see your journal?" Mulder asks.

"Yes. I knew you would want to. It's on the buffet behind you." Mulder twists around, but the buffet is covered with clocks and flowers and books and newspapers and magazines and plates and cups and a large pot of bronze chrysanthemums. "It's on the left; the blue leather notebook." He locates it and carefully slides it out from its place in the chaos.

Opening it, he begins flipping through it. "There must be a hundred entries here."

"Yes, it's been busy."

Scully speaks for the first time. "'It's' been busy? What do you think 'it' is?"

Euel pours the boiling water into an immense blue ceramic teapot, which he carries awkwardly to the table. Roswitha brings a plate of the fresh cinnamon rolls and a handful of napkins; both Jollers sit.

"Well, Rosie, you did it again. Another feast for yer old man."

"Thanks, Dad. Please, help yourselves." Skinner's the first to pick up a roll. It's moist and sticky with melted sugar and butter. The scent is amazing; his childhood captured in one inhalation. Smells like his Grandma Skinner, the adult who loved him best when he was a little boy.

For some moments, the kitchen is silent but for the ticking of all the clocks. Then the guests compliment Roswitha, who smiles happily at their words and finally takes a bite herself, and nods. "Not bad," she rather grudgingly admits. "I think a drop of lemon juice in the icing might be good, though.

"Anyway, what do I think 'it' is. I don't know. For a long time, I didn't think there was an 'it'; I mean, I didn't think an entity was responsible. I don't really believe in the spirit world. But *something* is moving or breaking or throwing our belongings around. I've seen it; Dad's seen it; even Frederick's seen it. That's why you're here, Dr. Scully; to tell me what it is and how to get rid of it."

Scully nods her head and pinches off another bit of the roll to pop into her mouth.

"Do you think we'll see something happen while we're here?" Skinner asks, feeling a little foolish as he does.

"Oh, I hope so. I've fixed up the guest rooms so you could stay here. That way you'll have a better chance to do so."

"Roswitha, we can't impose on you," Scully begins, but Roswitha waves her hands commandingly.

"It isn't an imposition. You're here to help us, and you can do that best if you stay here. Besides, there's plenty of room in this house. I do have a busy practice, so I won't be able to spend all my time with you. But you must make yourselves at home. Investigate all the rooms. The journal indicates when and where things happened, and if I'm busy, Dad can help you."

Dad is staring at the three agents, a particularly lascivious look in his eye. "Who's fucking who?" he suddenly asks, causing Skinner to choke on his Darjeeling and Scully to flush bright red. Mulder is deep in Roswitha's journal and apparently hasn't heard or understood the question.

"Dad!" Skinner thinks he'll be hearing that sound a lot in the next few days.

* * *

Roswitha and Euel continue to insist they must stay in the house if they're to help, and Mulder agrees, so he and Skinner trek back to the car and bring in their suitcases and duffel bags. Skinner and Mulder will be sharing a large room with two twin beds and a half-bath; Scully is down and across the hall in a small room almost completely filled with a queen-sized bed. Both rooms are as full of knickknacks as the rest of the house. Skinner takes the twin near the window, which overlooks a garden composed of complex patterns of raised beds. Scully's looks onto an enclosed herb garden with a statue of St. Francis preaching to the birds in the center.

The two men sit on their beds, then Skinner flops backwards. "Well, you have your work cut out for you, Mulder."

"I do? Aren't you here to help?"

"Hell, no, I'm here on vacation and to observe. I can't imagine how I could help you find a poltergeist; I'm not even sure I want to." He pulls a book down from the crowded bookcase under the window; Richard Dana's _Two Years Before the Mast_. He opens the book and falls into the story. He's mildly amused at Mulder's silence, and then realizes that his friend is asleep. He reads on, until he too dozes, the book across his chest.

* * *

Mulder awakes to Skinner's snoring; maybe Roswitha has earplugs he can use. The sky beyond the window is darkened with heavy fog; the twilight here in the redwoods is almost complete. He stretches and rolls onto his side to watch his supervisor sleep, surprised by the surge of affection the sight brings him. Skinner's glasses are askew on his nose, and Mulder has to suppress the urge to remove them and to cover Skinner with a blanket. He slips out of the room and wanders down the hallway, looking for Euel or Roswitha.

He finds Roswitha in the kitchen again, stirring a large pot of soup. The unmistakable odor of fresh bread fills the air, and he sniffs appreciatively. She smiles at him, and offers him a plate of tiny vegetables, artfully arranged. He takes a baby carrot and dips it into a pot of speckled white cheese.

"I'm sorry we fell asleep on you."

"No, please don't apologize. I understand that you're on vacation and here as a kindness, not an official x-file. Frederick called me last night and we talked a long time."

"You and Frederick are old friends?"

"He's given me permission to tell you that he was my client for several years."

"Client?"

"Yes. You know I'm a counselor? Frederick needed support when he decided to come out; that's my area of specialty. Anyway, we became friends and stayed in touch. He's been here a few times when things happened, and a few weeks ago, when you and Dr. Scully came out to help with the investigation he'd been working on, he called to ask me if I'd like him to ask you to come up. Since then, I've been reading about the work you do. I decided that, if Frederick liked you, which he did, I'd ask you here."

Mulder nods at the story. Well, Frederick is certainly out. He wonders how Frederick would do assigned to any other city than San Francisco. Certainly he'd have a difficult time in DC, and he suspects that would be true almost anywhere else. Frederick is a lucky man.

"You're not out, are you?" Mulder doesn't immediately understand Roswitha's question; when he does, he feels his face heat with the blush generated by it. His lips part in surprise, but he can't think what to say. "It's all right. I don't believe in outing people, or insist that they out themselves. Timing is so important in these decisions. Usually, life decides for us when we come out."

Finally, Mulder finds his voice. Out of embarrassment and confusion, he decides to ignore most of what she's said, and asks, "Are you gay?"

"Just like her old man," Euel's voice answers, and he leans in the low kitchen window. Behind him, Mulder can hear Scully and Skinner enter the kitchen, and he moves to sit at the table again.

"You're gay?" Scully asks, disbelief coloring her voice.

"Pansy, fairy, faggot -- you name it, that's me."

"But you have a daughter," she points out, perhaps unnecessarily; the daughter laughs to herself as she grinds pepper into the soup.

Euel leers at Scully and leans further in the window, as if to crawl right through. "And I can get it up again for a pretty lady, if that's what you mean." Mulder can't help but laugh a little at Scully's discomfort; he doesn't think he's ever seen her turn quite that shade of red before. Skinner, however, pulls out a chair and helps her to it. Euel's laugh fills the room even as he leaves the window and comes in the back door. "Don't worry; I know I'm too old and fat for you, sweetheart."

"Dad!"

He winks at Mulder, and begins carrying soup plates to the table. Skinner jumps up to help him, and dinner begins.

* * *

The next morning, Mulder wanders outdoors, stepping off the long wooden deck onto a graveled path lined with fist-sized gray stones. The backyard is layered by small raised garden beds of varying heights, each patch a lopsided rectangle built by stacked thin flat grey stones. As he walks deeper into the gardens, these stone walls grow higher, until they're hip and then waist high. He hears voices and turns to his left, where he finds Skinner and Euel.

Their backs to him, they sit on such a wall; this one encompasses a garden of what looks to Mulder like marijuana plants. Then he sees Euel pass a small, crooked cigarette to Skinner, who accepts it and inhales deeply. Mulder walks more quickly and turns to the right, into the path that leads to where they sit. Skinner rolls his head back, holding his breath. He sees Mulder and raises his eyebrows, passing the joint back to Euel.

Mulder, moving more slowly now in his surprise, walks to the men. Euel takes an enormous toke, then offers him the joint. He shakes his head and puts his hands in his pockets. Skinner finally exhales, slowly and deeply, then sniffs the smoke just released. "What the hell are you doing?" Mulder finally asks him.

Both Euel and Skinner look at him as if he's lost his mind. "Smoking a number," Skinner replies quite calmly. Mulder couldn't be more surprised if he said he was boiling Irish babies.

Euel gestures toward Mulder, and says to Skinner, "Why the hell don't you turn him over that table and fuck him until he can't sit down for a week?" Skinner looks at Mulder thoughtfully, as if seriously considering Euel's suggestion.

Mulder isn't sure what he's feeling. A small frisson of fear makes him shiver with pleasure. His mouth is dry. "I mean it, Skinner; what do you think you're doing?"

"Where are we, Agent Mulder?"

Has the marijuana damaged his cognitive abilities? "In Rio Nido."

"No, I mean, what are we doing here?"

"Investigating poltergeists?"

"You may be investigating poltergeists. I, however, am sitting in the backyard of my friend, Euel, smoking a number, while vacationing in northern California. Is there a problem?"

"Um, you're a peace officer, an assistant director of a federal law enforcement agency. Marijuana is illegal."

Silently, Skinner takes another toke and returns the number to Euel. Euel carefully extinguishes the joint and tucks it into a slim ivory container that he slips into his shirt pocket. Exhaling, Skinner says, "Arrest me."

Mulder stares at him. His eyes are a little bloodshot, but other than that, he looks exactly like his friend and boss, Walter Skinner. The older man stands up, leaning against Skinner for support, and says, "It's cold. I'm going in for some coffee. I'll have Roswitha brew us up a pot." He winks at Skinner and, as he passes Mulder, grabs his ass and squeezes it. Mulder gasps and jumps away; Euel cackles as he hobbles back up the path to the house. Skinner hasn't moved.

Mulder steps closer. "Are you okay? Really, is something wrong?"

Skinner sits motionless for another few heartbeats and then reaches around Mulder to grasp the belt loop on his jeans at the small of his back. He pulls Mulder to him, forcing his knee between Mulder's legs. Mulder overbalances and has to grab Skinner's shoulders to keep from falling right on top of him. Their faces are very near. Skinner continues to stare at him. "Why would you think something is wrong, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder is speechless. His heartrate has soared and he's breathing in shallow gasps. His mouth has completely dried out, and he can't moisten his lips. He shakes his head, and Skinner cups his right hand against his cheek to still him. He passes his thumb over Mulder's lips, which part at the touch. Mulder realizes that he's gently rocking his hips as Skinner's knee presses into him.

"Mulder!" Scully's voice shocks him back into a semblance of his usual self and he jumps away. Skinner releases him, then catches his arm so he doesn't fall. Keeping hold of his arm, Skinner stands and leads the way back to the house.

"Mulder!" Scully appears in the path ahead of them. "And you, too, sir; come inside. Breakfast is ready. Besides, it's too damp to stay outdoors for long." The two men silently accompany her back into the dark warmth of the kitchen. As they turn the corner of the path, Skinner sees a small rock sitting on top of one of the walls roll off. It bounces toward them and lands at his feet. Mulder is oblivious and walks past it. Skinner stares at it for a moment, and then leaves it where it lays.

* * *

At breakfast, Skinner surreptitiously studies Mulder, who's deep in Roswitha's journal again, occasionally asking her questions or making notes. What on earth had spurred him earlier? He hadn't smoked that much dope. Mulder looks up and catches his eye. They stare at each other for a moment, and Skinner feels a slight blush warm his face while he watches Mulder's face color at the same time. Skinner drops his eyes, a little flustered, and studies his breakfast plate. When he cautiously raises them again, Mulder is still looking at him. A smile slowly curls his beautiful lips. Skinner feels himself blushing even more, but an answering smile crawls across his face as well. Then Mulder returns his attention to the journal, still smiling, and Skinner spears another pancake from the stack on the table. Reaching for the syrup, he finds Euel eyeing him from behind his newspaper. Euel jerks the paper in front of his face and clears his throat. Skinner feels like a fool, but that smile won't leave his face. He refuses to raise his eyes from his plate again, in fear he'll discover someone else watching him. He decides to examine his feelings and analyze his behavior later. Right now, the knowledge that Mulder sits a few feet away from him absorbs all his concentration.

* * *

"Why do you grow marijuana, Euel?" Skinner asks, sipping his after-breakfast coffee. Roswitha, Mulder, and Scully have taken theirs to the blue room, where so much poltergeist activity has occurred. Mulder's still carrying her blue leather journal, working his way through the list of strange happenings. He reminds Skinner of an American tourist working his way through the Louvre; gotta see the Mona Lisa, Winged Victory, and the Venus de Milo, only Mulder's gotta see the broken vase, the upturned chair, and the spot with the icy breeze.

"An old fuck-buddy, Bob, has cancer. Can't eat a goddam thing. He used to be a big guy, like me; now he's skin and bones. I bring him dope to help with the pain and give him a little appetite. Rosie makes him hash brownies; he can eat maybe one a day. She packs 'em with butter to get a little fat on him.

"And, of course, I like it. I stay a little buzzed all day anymore. When I was young and fit, I could work all day. Bake bread in the morning, I was a baker, you know; protest something at noon; fuck all night. But now Rosie does most of the baking and I'm too burnt out to protest shit. Well, I did go down to The City during the Gulf War, but hell, that's been eight, nine years.

"'Course, it's too cold and dark to grow good stuff here in the redwoods. I buy it up in Garberville. But a little homegrown is good for the soul. Garden a little, smoke a lot.

"How 'bout you, G-Man? You know how to suck a doobie."

"Nam." Euel nods sagely, claps his hand on Skinner's shoulder, but says nothing.

* * *

"So other people have heard the rapping?" Mulder asks Roswitha as she shows him the fragments of the Venetian glass vase.

"Oh, yes. It's annoying. Rapping, thumping, bangs, crashes -- sometimes just a few taps, other times a symphony of noises. On New Year's I had a small dinner party; the dining room table was thumped so hard the dishes vibrated. You could see the water and wine trembling in their glasses.

"I was in this room when the vase fell. It stood right here, on this table. I was sitting in that chair reading when the vase broke right at my feet. I never saw how it got all the way across the room."

"That's called 'apporting,'" Mulder tells her, eyeing the distance between the table and chair, "when an object is moved without anyone seeing it being moved."

Scully stands near the door, cradling her coffee cup for warmth. She is uncomfortable in this room. It's cold, as are all the rooms in this house except the kitchen. She and Mulder and Skinner are starting to look like Euel and Roswitha in their dress; all are wearing layers and layers of sweaters and shirts and jackets. But it's more than the cold; she feels apprehensive. Anxious. Free-floating anxiety, she believes it's called.

She steps out of the room into the hallway and discovers that the anxiety lessens. Back in the room, and her skin crawls into goosebumps. Out into the hall and her breathing deepens and her heartrate slows. Some psychosomatic phenomenon, then. Mulder is studying her, concern in his face; she smiles at him reassuringly and heads toward her bedroom. She needs to access her computer, to research poltergeists. Surely there's an explanation waiting for her in cyberspace.

* * *

The five gather after dinner that night to discuss what they've learned so far. Scully's research hasn't helped much; mostly she found collections of ghost stories and Fortean weirdness. She did discover a connection between the suppression of the pineal gland's production of melatonin and the observation of both poltergeist and UFO activity, but she decides not to mention that to Mulder. He probably already knows, anyway.

Roswitha's journal reveals a not particularly vicious poltergeist. Not a lot of destruction; rather, objects tend to be moved slightly -- the broken vase and glasses tend to occur when other people are in the house. When it's just Roswitha and Euel, things roll around inexplicably, doors and walls are knocked on, tables shaken.

According to Mulder, the most destructive poltergeist activity tends to occur when an adolescent is involved. The theory is that the emerging sexual energy of adolescence is vented into destruction.

Upon learning this, Roswitha offers the theory that her clients, people struggling to accept their sexual identities and trying to decide with whom to share that knowledge, may be generating a similar energy and causing the problem. Mulder's never heard of a connection between outings and poltergeists, but it makes sense to him.

Roswitha explains, "Most of my clients come to me during the third stage of coming out, the Identity Tolerance Stage. It's a stressful time; they've recognized that they're gay and have begun seeking support, understanding, and compassion. They are almost always very fearful of this recognition and struggle to remain unobtrusive. A good percentage of my clients haven't yet acted on their attraction to others of their gender and seek my help in making that decision as well."

Although Mulder likes this suggestion, he isn't fully satisfied with it. Scully and Skinner remain doubtful. It seems too pat, too easy. Why would Roswitha's home be the site of poltergeist activity, rather than her clients'? And what happened sixteen months ago to precipitate the activity? Neither Roswitha nor Euel has an answer.

* * *

Skinner decides to take a bath before bed that night. It's an unusual decision for him, but the enormous claw-footed tub in the large bathroom at the end of the hall intrigues him; while showering in it and sitting on the toilet each day of their visit, he's considered its length and width and has decided it'll do. In the bathroom's open wicker cupboards, he finds a pharmacy of bath and massage products: Moon-Blended Calendula Oil, Medicinal Herb Massage Oil, cloth packets labeled "Sexy Sachet from the Herbal Apothecary," Milk and Honey Hand Lotion, Lemongrass and Myrrh Body Lotion, and a bottle of a dark green, rather piney-smelling liquid, labeled Brazilian Rainforest Bath Gel; he squirts a good splash into the tub as it's filling and is rewarded with an avalanche of bubbles.

Lowering himself carefully into the very hot water, trying not to send waves splashing over the sides of the tub, he relaxes into the heat. The tub is long enough that he can not only stretch out his legs but lie back against the tub and rest his head on the wall behind it. He wishes he had one of Euel's joints to toke, but he needs to knock that off. He'll have to be back at work in a month and, if he's unlucky enough to be selected for a random drug test, he'll need almost that long to get the cannabis out of his system. Why the feds are so pissy about marijuana he cannot understand. Instead, he's sipping a glass of Glen Ellen petite sirah port.

He closes his eyes and sinks deeper into the water, inhaling the spicy smell of the bubble bath with pleasure. He can't remember the last time he took a bath rather than a utilitarian shower. Sharon liked baths, and would sometimes invite him to join her. Their tub had been too small, though, and he had too often wanted to turn the bath into foreplay. Poor Sharon. She just wanted his company, he understands now. Just someone to cuddle and visit with, to help keep away the loneliness.

The door suddenly opens with a rush of cold air and then Mulder's staring at him in shock, mouth open, face red. "Oh, man, I'm sorry --"

"It's all right, Mulder. These bubbles hide a multitude of sins." Mulder laughs at that. "Shut the door, though, before you let in all the cold air." Mulder obeys, stepping inside the room, then blushes again.

"I just wanted to shower. I can wait." Skinner nods. For the space of one breath, he's tempted to invite Mulder to share the tub, as Sharon would have, but says nothing. The two men stare at each other for a moment more, then Mulder says, "Um, I'll go now. Can I get you anything?" Skinner shakes his head, and Mulder starts to leave, pauses to look back at him, his face for once blank and unreadable, then goes, shutting the door behind him.

Skinner would really like a hit right now.

* * *

The next morning, long enough after breakfast that he's thinking of some of Roswitha's homemade bread and a cup of coffee, Skinner studies an ornately carved built-in hatrack in one of the many small rooms that comprise this odd house. Euel surprises him by appearing silently at his side. "Nice work, eh?"

"Yes, it is. Who built this house?"

"I'm ashamed to say a man who made millions from logging the redwoods at the turn of the last century. He built a railway to get the lumber to the Bay; he owned a shipping line to ship it; he built sawmills to cut it. But he did build this house, so I suppose he couldn't be all bad." Skinner nods, looking around appreciatively. "Did you know the house has a second floor?"

"I've never seen any stairs."

Euel smiles mysteriously and leads him out of the room, down a hall, and opens a mirrored door that leads to a spiral staircase. "Come on." He climbs heavily around and around the stairwell, stopping at the top in a large empty room with tall, narrow windows. Pale gold light streaming from the windows reflects off the shiny hardwood floor. The walls are papered in a delicate cream with widely-spaced thin pink stripes twined with pink carnations. Floor-length, very pale pink gauzy curtains frame each of the windows, softening the light. Skinner thinks it looks like a ballroom from a Jane Austen novel. The air smells musty and unused; motes of dust rising in the air catch the light. He walks past Euel, puzzled at the layout of the room.

"What was this used for?" When there's no response, Skinner turns around. Euel is gone. He looks down the stairwell, but sees nothing, so, glancing around the room again, returns downstairs. The door at the foot of the stairs is shut but opens easily. He hears Roswitha saying goodbye to a client and finds his way to her office. When she returns, he asks, "Where's your dad?"

"He's at his friend Bob's today."

"Did he just go?"

"No, I drove him over early this morning, before my first client arrived. Why? Do you need something?"

Skinner isn't sure what to think or say. He sighs heavily, and says, "No. Just wanted to talk to him." He turns to go, then turns back. "Roswitha, what was the purpose of the room on the second floor?"

"Second floor of what?"

"Of this house." At her blank look, he elaborates. "You know, the big empty room upstairs?"

"Walt, I'm sorry, but this house doesn't have a second floor." They stare at each other for a moment, then Skinner nods. He retraces his steps to the mirrored door, but of course, it's just a mirror now. No doorknob to be seen. He touches it carefully, wondering if his hand will sink through the tarnished silver reflection, but he feels only a cold slick surface, leaving his fingerprints behind as evidence of his existence.

* * *

After a noisy lunch listening to Euel complain about not being able to drive anymore, Mulder leaves the house to wander the gardens again. He doesn't know much about gardens, and certainly nothing about gardens in northern California redwood forests, but they are pretty. He follows paths at random, heading mostly downhill, until he leaves the graveled paths and steps onto the springy loam of the redwoods.

Euel and Roswitha's home was built in an almost pure stand of redwoods. He studies one carefully. It's the first time he's seen a redwood up close. The bark is interesting; dark and thick and stringy. It's deeply grooved; between the grooves, spiders have built dense webs. He's read that the bark is extremely fire-resistant. He touches the tree; it feels cool and moist. Finally, he looks up, and discovers he has to lean backwards to see the sky. He lies down on the thick, damp mulch and stares up. Through a filigreed scrim of lacy leaves, he can see the fog far above him. The tops of the trees are impossibly distant. They literally touch the sky; pearly grey fog drapes them and hides their crowns. He thinks he can feel the earth beneath him turn on its axis. He feels immeasurably small, immeasurably young, immeasurably insignificant. He finds comfort in these feelings.

Mulder hears a scuffling noise and twists his head to see Euel cautiously making his way toward him. He remains on his back and puts his hands behind his head. Euel stops nearby and leans heavily against a redwood. After huffing a bit, he says, "Beautiful, aren't they."

Mulder nods. "How did you come to live here, Euel?"

"My mom's place, and her mom's before her. I moved to the The City for a while when I was in my twenties, but I missed it too much. So I came back and just went down for the weekends, for the bathhouses. But I'd always come home." He sighs gustily. "When I'm gone, it'll be Roswitha's. I don't know what'll happen when she's gone." He looks sadly around him.

"You know anything about redwoods, kid? Here's the most interesting thing I know. You know what a taproot is? It's a long, deep root that grows straight down. They're what keep a tree standing. But redwoods have no taproot. The tallest tree in the world only has a network of tiny roots just below the surface of the ground. Each tree needs the others around it to help it remain standing. When one tree falls, the others eventually do, too. They all need each other, to keep standing."

Mulder stares up at the tops of the trees again. Far above, he can see the fog is clearing and blue sky beginning to appear. A drop of water falls onto Mulder's chin, condensed from the fog far above him. He licks it off, but it's tasteless. Even ingesting it, he is no closer to the mystery of these trees. Sighing, he regretfully rises, brushing the needles from his jeans and jacket and out of his hair. He smells his hand; a rich and pungent scent fills his nose. Suddenly he wants to be back in the kitchen, back with his friends. It's too quiet and lonely out here. He takes Euel's elbow and helps him back to the house.

* * *

Skinner finds Mulder wandering around the blue room, studying its contents as if they will reveal the poltergeist's secrets. His handsome face is creased in a frown, and his hair ruffled, with tiny redwood needles in it. Skinner laughs to himself and crosses the room, carefully removing the needles. He shows them to Mulder, who looks at him and smiles. Moved by that smile, Skinner drops his hand from Mulder's hair to his shoulder, and puts his left hand on Mulder's hip. Mulder steps closer. They stare into each other's eyes for a moment, and then embrace. Skinner doesn't recognize the impulse to hold Mulder; is it sexual? Fraternal? Paternal? He just wants to touch him, to feel him warm and alive in his arms. He kisses Mulder's hair and tightens his arms around him. Skinner sighs deeply with contentment, and is comforted to feel Mulder tighten his arms, too. The only sound is the nearest clock, gently ticking to itself.

Behind Mulder, down a series of hallways, Skinner sees a young boy in early adolescence. The boy is tall and thin, a little gawky, with thick dark hair. He sees Skinner and smiles shyly, then gestures toward him. Skinner drops his eyes and steps back from Mulder, who looks surprised. He nods his head in the direction of the boy and turns Mulder around. But the boy is gone. More than that, the door is gone. On the wall opposite them is a large mirror; Mulder and Skinner are reflected in it.

"What is it? Do you think we're a good-looking couple?" Mulder jokes. Skinner puts his arms around his friend again, crossing his hands over Mulder's chest, watching their reflections. Mulder's eyes are dark; he's looking at the mirrored Skinner with a quiet intensity. On an impulse, Skinner slowly and deliberately kisses Mulder's neck, still watching the mirror. Mulder twists his head around and kisses Skinner on the mouth, then turns in his arms and kisses him more deeply. Skinner opens his mouth to Mulder's tongue, shuddering in heated passion. In the distance, they hear Euel shouting for his daughter, and slowly step apart.

"Well," Skinner says breathlessly, wondering what he should do now. Mulder appears to read his mind; he taps him lightly on the face and heads toward Euel's voice. As he leaves the blue room, a tasseled pillow tumbles from an easy chair near the door. Skinner studies it carefully, then leaves it where it's fallen.

* * *

Scully and Roswitha stand close together in the kitchen, heads almost touching. They're staring at the marble counter, on which sits a large block of semi-sweet chocolate. Roswitha takes a knife and chops several pieces off, then picks one up and puts it in Scully's mouth. Scully closes her eyes and lets the chocolate melt. "Distinctive," she finally says, opening her eyes. "Very dark, but not at all bitter. There's no burnt taste, no waxy texture. I've never tasted anything like it."

"No, and you won't. This is Scharffen Berger, made in San Francisco. I'll make sure you have some to take back with you. I bet your mom would love a few bars."

"*I'd* love a few bars," Scully agrees as Roswitha begins chopping in earnest. "Can I help you?"

"Would you separate those eggs? I'll get the chocolate chopped and melted, and you can beat the sugar into the eggs if you'd like." They start to work as Skinner, Mulder, and Euel enter the kitchen.

"I need coffee, Rosie," Euel announces.

"Dad, I'm cooking. Make it yourself."

"You make it better."

"Then make tea."

"I want coffee."

"Dad!"

Skinner steps in. "I'll make the coffee, Euel. You sit down and tell us how Bob's doing." Following Roswitha's directions, Skinner locates the beans and grinder, while Euel natters away behind him, complaining of the nursing home where Bob's been relocated, the trip back by an old friend who drives worse than Roswitha, and the number of tourists wandering the streets of Guerneville, where Bob now lives. His voice booms over the grinder and then Scully's electric beaters. Mulder observes the activity and noise with some bemusement; his family had been so silent, locked away in their separate rooms of anger and disappointment and fear. It's a little overwhelming for him. Then Skinner looks over his shoulder at him and winks before turning back to scooping the ground beans into the coffee maker.

Behind him, Mulder hears a sibilant whisper. He turns his head, thinking one of Roswitha's clients has arrived, but sees no one. With the others busy, he wanders through the house to the front door. As usual, the top half of the door is open; no one is there. He again hears the whisper, again behind him, deeper in the house. He cocks his head, trying to follow it.

He has left the noise of the kitchen behind him; the silent redwoods surrounding the house seem to soak up all sound, except the hissing whisper of whatever he's following. Now he's convinced no living person is speaking; he's following the poltergeist. He looks into each room as he passes; no one there. No movement. Ahead, he hears the voice -- voices? -- again. He can almost make out the words. He walks more quickly, until the hall dead ends. The voice is once more behind him.

He turns quickly, and sees a slight sudden movement, as if the dark wood of the hallway's walls had shimmered. He moves slowly towards that spot, and then stops. He is afraid to approach it. He is afraid of what he will find. The voices are silent now. He feels cold.

Then he hears Skinner's voice calling his name. He strides down the hall, avoiding the spot he thought he saw shimmer, heading toward the warmth of the kitchen. Skinner is standing just outside the door, looking worried. He smiles with obvious relief when he sees Mulder, his shoulders slumping and his chest heaving with a sigh. He jerks his head toward the kitchen, and Mulder hurries toward him. Mulder feels his face relax into an answering smile and he puts his arms around Skinner, who hugs him back and kisses his cheek. He steps away and walks into the kitchen. Mulder follows.

Skinner, however, is still at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee into mugs. Euel is bossing him about how much milk and sugar to add. Mulder can't figure out how he got across the large room and around the table so quickly; it isn't possible. Skinner turns and smiles at him.

"Where'd you go?"

"Were you just outside the kitchen?"

Skinner frowns and shakes his head. "I've been here the entire time. Why? Where'd you go?" Mulder opens his mouth to explain, but stops. He shakes his head helplessly and looks into Skinner's worried eyes. "Mulder?" Now everyone in the kitchen is looking at him.

"I, I saw you. In the hallway. Just now. You hugged me."

Skinner blushes slightly, but puts down the coffee pot and moves to Mulder's side. "What do you mean?"

"Just this minute. Just the other side of the door. You were there." Mulder's throat closes on him and he can say no more. Skinner puts his hands on Mulder's shoulders and looks deeply into his eyes, searching. Then he embraces Mulder, folding him tightly into his arms. Over Skinner's shoulder, Mulder sees Scully's face crease in distress, and she too comes to his side and puts her arms around him. He closes his eyes for a moment, remembering what the other Skinner felt like. He can find no difference.

"It's okay, Mulder," Skinner finally says. "Just stay here, with Scully."

"No!" Mulder grabs at Skinner, who gives him a warning glance and then steps outside the kitchen door. Mulder moans in his throat, and he feels Scully shiver. Skinner steps back in, shaking his head.

"No one there, buddy. I'm sorry."

* * *

The five sit around the kitchen table. Yet another pot of coffee has been brewed and they each have steaming mugs at their elbows. In the center of the table is a platter of hash brownies that Roswitha and Scully have made.

"Tell me again why we're going to ingest an illicit substance," Scully asks.

Roswitha answers first. "I think it's a good idea. Maybe under the influence we'll be able to see something, understand something."

"But we'll be *drugged*. How can we believe what we see?"

Mulder, sounding slightly aggrieved, says, "Scully. You're a doctor; you know that everything is a drug. Coffee is a drug. Chocolate is a drug. Sugar is a drug. We're *always* under the influence. We're just going to direct our attention; a sort of lucid dreaming, only done awake and as a group."

"The Latin name for the active substance in chocolate is 'theobromine,' which translates to 'food of the gods.' And cannabis sativa is just cultivated hemp. It's good for you, Dana, I promise," Roswitha reassures her.

"Besides," Euel adds, picking up a brownie, "Rosie makes the best goddam hash brownies on God's green earth." He takes a big bite and closes his eyes in pleasure. "Oh, Jesus, Rosie," he says through the brownie.

Scully watches as Skinner, Roswitha, and Mulder each takes a brownie and bites carefully into it. She picks one up, sniffs it delicately, and takes a small taste. The chocolate was cut in large chunks, so not all of it was liquid when she'd mixed it into the flour, egg, and sugar mixture. Now the chunks are warm and soft, and ooze onto her tongue. It is delicious. No, it transcends delicious. She takes another, larger bite, and resigns herself to the experience.

After they've all finished their brownies and are sipping coffee, Scully licks her fingers and asks, "How long till I feel something?"

Skinner starts to laugh. His face turns red, even his ears turn red, he laughs so hard and so loud. The others start laughing, too, his pleasure infectious. Even Scully starts to laugh, wondering at the delightful sensation of laughter whuffing up from her lungs and belly. She laughs as she hasn't since she was a little girl; she can't catch her breath and thinks she'll wet her pants. The image of herself doing so makes her laugh even harder. Mulder has his head on the table, sobbing with laughter. Euel bellows. Roswitha is wiping her eyes on her sweater's sleeves. "How -- long," Skinner finally gasps out. "How -- long," and collapses again into laughter. Scully has absolutely no idea why her question was so funny, but it suddenly seems to be the most brilliant, the most slapstick, the most ironic, the funniest question ever asked in the history of asking questions. She falls off her chair, landing hard, but never stops laughing.

From the floor, the world seems an especially funny place. All those legs under the table. She can see that Mulder's and Skinner's are entwined; Skinner's foot is rubbing Mulder's calf. Roswitha's shoes are hysterical: purple suede Birkenstocks, the Jerry Lewis of shoes. Euel is so fat he can't keep his legs together, and his belly lies on his lap like a puppy.

Finally, when she can catch her breath, Scully climbs back into her chair. Mulder is smiling dreamily now, holding Skinner's hand. Skinner looks foolishly at him, eyes half closed. Roswitha holds her head in her hands, staring at Scully. Euel has fallen asleep and is snoring noisily. She takes a sip of her cooling coffee, and ponders whether to eat another brownie. She decides not to, although she does pinch a tiny piece off one. The chocolate is so good.

Finally, Roswitha stands. "Come on, Euel; let's get you to bed." Skinner gets up, and offers to help her, as Euel wakes slowly and, with his daughter's help, lumbers to his feet. "Bed, sweetie," Roswitha says, and he nods sleepily. The two head off in that direction.

Skinner, still standing, looks down at Mulder. "Bed?" he suggests. Mulder smiles even more and, using Skinner's hand for leverage, pulls himself up. "Come on, Scully," Skinner tells her, and takes her hand, too. She stops at her bedroom door and watches the two men stagger to their room, still holding hands. She isn't sure what she's watching; is it hash-induced sleepiness or something more?

Scully decides she needs a bath more than sleep. She goes into her room to get her bathrobe and bathing supplies. Opening the closet, she notices a strap or belt hanging from a hook on the door. She takes it down; it's soft leather, just less than two inches wide, about eighteen inches long. It isn't long enough to be a belt, she decides, but can't think what it is. She lets the leather flow through her hands again and again, and then impulsively swings it across her thigh. It stings right through the blue jeans. Scully shivers and closes her eyes.

* * *

Skinner wakes to find he's lying on top of his narrow bed fully clothed and freezing. He remembers eating two hash brownies and laughing his ass off, but nothing more. So much for lucid dreaming. He rolls onto his side and sees Mulder in a similar state, except he'd gotten his trousers off. He looks cold, his bare legs pale in the thin light. Skinner turns toward the window; on top of the bookcase below the window is a votive candle in a round glass holder, and next to it a book of matches. He lights the candle and twists back to study Mulder.

In sleep, the years of hard work and anxiety have fled, and his face is relaxed and youthful. In place of the middle-aged man, Skinner sees the boy. The same boy he'd seen at the end of the non-existent hallways earlier that day. His heart kicks in his chest as he realizes that he'd seen the young Fox Mulder, and that the boy had seen him, had smiled at *him*.

Mulder stirs in his sleep, as if aware of Skinner's scrutiny, and opens his eyes. The two men stare at each other in the flickering light. Skinner rolls out of bed, pulls off his clothes, and climbs back in. Leaving the covers flipped back, he waits. After a moment, Mulder gets out of his bed and stands next to Skinner's. For a moment more, Skinner remains alone in his cold bed, and then Mulder slips in beside him. The bed is so narrow they have to cuddle. Skinner kisses Mulder, a chaste, brotherly kiss. Then Mulder opens his mouth and Skinner is lost in sudden lust. He rolls on top of Mulder, resting on his elbows and knees so as not to crush him, and begins to rock his hips against Mulder's. Mulder cries out in pleasure and thrashes his head against the pillow. "Oh, Walt, Jesus," he whispers, and Skinner remembers Euel's question: why hadn't he fucked Mulder till he couldn't sit down for a week? He really doesn't know the answer to that question. What an idiot he's been.

He stares at the man beneath him. In the wavering light from the candle, Mulder looks almost as youthful as he did asleep. The creamy glow of his candlelit skin captivates Skinner; he gently strokes Mulder's cheekbone and jaw again and again, lost in the sensation. He slowly rolls his head forward and touches Mulder's lips with his, simply stroking them. Mulder's breath is sweet from the mint of his toothpaste, with the slightest hint of chocolate behind it. Skinner feels caught in the moment, as if time could not pass, could not move on from the sensual tension in which he hovers.

Gradually, Skinner's attention slides from Mulder's face to the pressure of Mulder's body against his. Skinner leans on his elbows, lightly kissing Mulder, their hips pressed together, legs entangled. He continues to slide his hips in small movements against Mulder's, their penises slipping against each other in a happy friction that pulls Skinner's focus down, down, into himself and the building sensations.

He has never felt so focused, so centered, has never been so aware of another's body and breath and presence. He feels merged with Mulder, into his very existence. Suddenly, Mulder slips down from his arms, under his body, and pushes Skinner's hips up and his legs apart. He lies beneath Skinner, kissing his belly, his cock, his balls, his thighs, and then sucks Skinner's cock deep into his mouth. Mulder's hot moist mouth and his pinching fingers working Skinner's testicles force all the air out of Skinner's lungs; he drops his head onto the bed and bellows. Mulder seizes his ass but Skinner sits back on his knees and drags Mulder up, pulling him into his arms. They stare into each other's eyes, gasping. They begin again.

They begin again.

* * *

At breakfast the next morning, only Euel seems in high spirits. He's still laughing at the idea that the poltergeist would reveal itself if they all got high. Mulder admits to the others that it was a stupid idea; he admits to himself that he just wanted a reason to get high. He's a little uncomfortable this morning, both because it was his idea and such a failure, and because his body had been used in unaccustomed ways, and quite vigorously, last night. Skinner is subdued, but eyes him speculatively. Mulder wonders what he's thinking.

Scully also seems subdued, deep in thought. Finally, she puts down her mug and asks, "Roswitha. Have you ever thought about having an exorcism?"

Roswitha looks at her sternly. "This isn't a cheesy grade B movie, Dana."

Scully flushes a little, but persists. "You've tried everything else. Why not? What could it hurt?" Roswitha lifts her eyebrows, obviously considering the suggestion, and then nods reluctantly. "I'll take care of it," Scully tells her. Roswitha nods again.

* * *

Mulder isn't sure what he thinks of the exorcism idea, but he's certainly willing to go along with it. For one thing, it has invigorated Scully. She's made several phone calls, and is taking careful notes. Apparently doing a real exorcism takes approval from somewhere quite high up the food chain of the Catholic church, but there are others, not affiliated with the Church, who can also perform them. Scully is running down such a person. Mulder has no doubt that an exorcism will be performed.

He sees Skinner talking with Euel, gesturing sharply. Roswitha is with a client and won't be free for several hours. He decides to hunt the poltergeist one last time, before Scully succeeds in having it evicted.

He returns to the hallway where he'd seen the shimmer in the paneling the day before. It's solid wood now, of course, as cold as the rest of the house. He taps on it gently, and then more firmly. Solid. He turns in a circle, then gives up and walks to the blue room.

The blue room really is blue. The fading walls are painted a very pale robin's egg blue; the exterior wall is water-stained high in one corner near the ceiling above the window. The curtains are cream and indigo striped with indigo fringe. Even the furniture is covered in blue material, all different patterns and different shades. The effect is somewhat like being underwater. It's the coldest room in the house.

According to Roswitha's journal, the most intense activity has occurred in this room. Sometimes people have witnessed it; other times, she or Euel have simply found oddities. They've heard music; objects have been rearranged into patterns; things fall for no apparent reason. Most often they've heard rapping noises, sometimes quite loud. Roswitha reports that very occasionally a session with a client has been disturbed by loud banging coming from the blue room.

Mulder finds Euel and Roswitha to be reliable witnesses. Certainly, their friend Frederick thinks they are. But appearances can, he knows, be deceiving, and he's been fooled before. Scully had once warned him that the truth was out there, but so were lies. What is he faced with here? Mulder notices a tasseled cushion from an easy chair has fallen to the floor; he picks it up and sits in the chair, holding the cushion in his lap.

Skinner has quietly and rather shamefacedly told Mulder what he's seen in this house. They have speculated about the meaning of these events. Mulder's own experience, seeing and being held by something or someone other than Skinner, genuinely perplexes him. Somewhat irrationally, he feels as though the imago occurred at least in part as a result of the shift in his and Skinner's relationship. That it embraced and kissed him, expressed relief at his well-being, persuades him of this.

He forces himself to think about what has transpired between him and Skinner. He holds the pillow tighter, and drops his head. I lay in bed with Skinner, he thinks. Jesus. He closes his eyes and remembers kissing him, being kissed. Remembers Skinner staring at him, a slight smile curling his mouth. Remembers being touched in the most intimate of ways. Being entered. Being owned. Belonging. He is, he suddenly knows quite viscerally, wanted. He shivers, in delight and apprehension.

"Mulder?" He looks up to find Scully standing hesitantly at the door. "Are you all right?" He nods and smiles encouragingly at her. She smiles weakly. "I found someone." She pauses, and asks, "Can we talk in the kitchen? I don't like this room."

The kitchen is significantly warmer than the blue room had been. Mulder starts water boiling for tea, while Scully sits at the table watching him. When the kettle's on the stove, he turns and leans against the kitchen counter. She's bundled in layers of clothing, including a San Jose Sharks sweatshirt he's loaned her against the chill of this house in the redwoods. She looks charming to him, in her exasperating way.

"Well, I found someone who's willing to perform an exorcism. He isn't affiliated with any organized religions, not a former priest or anything, but he has done other cleansings, as he calls them. He was recommended by a priest in Guerneville. He'll be out tomorrow around eleven." Mulder nods.

He feels close to Scully at that moment. Arranging an exorcism is so unlike her. Ever since her illness, she has turned more and more to her childhood faith; perhaps this decision is related to her experience with near-death. He realizes that, of all the people in the house, only Scully hasn't reported hearing or seeing something. He looks into her cool blue eyes, wondering at her reasons for taking this action. Yet he hesitates to ask, fearing to embarrass his friend. Finally, he simply says, "Thank you." She blushes slightly, and drops her eyes. The kettle begins to sing, and he turns to the task of making them tea.

With his back to her, he shyly says, "Scully? Can I tell you something really personal?"

She says, "I know, Mulder. I'm -- I'm happy for you." He turns in surprise to find her standing at the table, one hand on the back of a chair, tears in her eyes.

"You don't look happy."

She smiles. "I am, really. I think I've known for a while, but . . ." Neither speaks again. He brings her tea in a large mug with yellow roses painted on the side; his has a German shepherd on it. They clink mugs together, but before he can drink, she puts a hand on his arm, steps nearer, and kisses him on the cheek. "Switch rooms with me, Mulder. I've got that big bed, and you guys could use it."

He can feel himself turning bright red, but can't help smiling. He nods, and drinks his tea.

* * *

Skinner stands in the second-floor ballroom, crushed by the elaborately dressed crowd. The men wear tuxedos, the women long gowns with deep decolletage. He's in Asics, blue jeans, and a tee shirt with the California Republic bear flag silkscreened on the front. Music is playing; it sounds live, but he can't see the source.

He sidles through the crowd to the dance floor. It is full; the long skirts swirl as the men carefully guide their partners to Patsy Cline singing "The Tennessee Waltz." He loves that song. The dancers move not only as couples, but as a group slowly circle the perimeter. Across the dance floor, through the crowd, he sees Mulder.

Skinner slips onto the dance floor, working his way around the dancers, in front of the watching crowd, trying to reach Mulder, who hasn't seen him. He's observing the dance with a look of delight on his face. He looks relaxed and happy and much younger than he should. Skinner longs for Mulder to look at him with the same expression of delight.

Eventually, he reaches Mulder's side. For a moment he hesitates, and then he taps Mulder's shoulders. "May I have this dance?"

Skinner's wish is granted; Mulder's face opens with joy as he puts his right arm around Skinner's waist and takes Skinner's right hand in his left. Okay, so Mulder's going to lead. Well, that does seem to be how they work together: Mulder leading, Skinner following. They step onto the dance floor. Skinner begins to dance.

* * *

Scully bends over the back of the easy chair in the blue room, her hair falling into her face as she looks into the seat of the chair, hands supporting herself on the arms. Her legs can barely reach the floor behind the chair; she has to stand on her tiptoes. She is nude.

Behind her stands someone. She doesn't know who, but she can feel a presence. She knows why she is positioning herself in such a vulnerable stance. She begins to cry. At that instant, something flicks against her upper thighs, and she cries out in pain. She's being whipped with something, maybe a belt. Again the flick; she can actually hear it whistle through the air as it's brought down against her tender skin. Her bottom and thighs feel on fire; she's sobbing in pain; yet with each snap of the whip, her pelvis pushes against the chair, the material rubbing deliciously against her genitals.

She pushes her bottom back for the next blow, which causes her mons veneris to rub against the chair and pull her clitoris. Back and forth, between the lash and the chair; even as she weeps, she can feel an orgasm approaching, building. Her hands slip on the fabric and she begins to fall over the back of the chair, into the seat; to stop herself, she spreads her legs and catches the sides of the chair with her feet. So open, the next blow falls directly on her vulva and she screams; the lash falls harder and faster again and again and again, and Scully comes and comes and comes.

* * *

Mulder is lost in the redwoods. They are so enormous. He's frightened. He wants to go home. It's dark and cold; fog drifts like tumbleweed across the spongy forest floor. He can't think how he got here. Is he looking for Samantha? His dad will be so angry with him. He's tempted to fall to his knees in prayer, but he doesn't know to whom to pray. He knows from experience that prayer won't help him, anyway. His teeth are chattering with the cold, his fingernails are blue. He begins to cry, wrapping his arms around his waist to keep in his body heat, and to comfort himself. "There, there," he thinks to himself, feeling foolish, "There, there."

Through the trees, he sees a pale yellow light. He begins to walk toward it, hoping it's home. Maybe his mom will be there, waiting for him. He's afraid his dad will find him first. Outcroppings of sharp rock protrude through the forest floor, and he keeps stumbling over them, catching himself against the trees. He wipes his runny nose with his sweater's sleeve. The light seems to be moving; is it a flashlight? A lantern?

"Help!" he calls, but no sounds comes from his throat. "Help me!" But the forest's silence is unbroken. He tries to walk faster, but it's as though the rocks grab at his ankles, slowing him down. He trips again and falls, hurting his knee. He kneels, clutching it in pain. He's sobbing now; he's afraid and alone and hurt.

Then he sees the light. It is a flashlight, and it's held by Skinner. Mulder's heart is flooded with relief. He doesn't need to shout anymore; Skinner will find him. Skinner will take care of him. Skinner is coming for him.

* * *

Skinner wakes first the next morning, the day of the exorcism. Mulder lies snoring quietly next to him. Jesus, he'd had weird dreams. Dancing with Mulder. He shakes his head in bemusement.

He takes the opportunity to study him: Mulder at rest. Not a sight he's accustomed to. He gently touches Mulder's hair, smoothes it away from his forehead. How can trouble be so appealing? For Mulder is trouble; Skinner's had six years to discover that. Six turbulent years of worry and anger and affection. But where Mulder has led, Skinner has followed: into danger, into conspiracy, into emotional darkness, and almost into death. He supposes he'll follow Mulder for the rest of his life, however much time that may be. He doesn't doubt that he'll continue to bluster; to order Mulder around and be frustrated at the subsequent failure to follow orders; to worry himself into a second ulcer, if not into an early grave. As usual, life hasn't given him much choice.

Mulder stirs, takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes. For a moment, he looks puzzled, and then he smiles. "Hey."

"Hey."

"That Scully."

Skinner nods, blushing. Now that was a moment to treasure, switching rooms with Scully. He didn't know who was more embarrassed. He simultaneously wanted to kiss her with gratitude and sink into the earth with mortification. She never said a word; just smiled kindly and squeezed his arm before disappearing into their old room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Of course, now she has a toilet right there, rather than having to traipse down the hall, but he doubts that was any part of her motivation to exchange rooms.

"Today's the day," he reminds Mulder, who sits up and starts talking immediately.

"I've never seen an exorcism. I wonder if he'll use the traditional, Roman Catholic ceremony, or do something else? Scully says he's a new age cosmic twinkie, but she would. It's so odd that she'd arrange this ritual; well, maybe not. I should get ready," but before he can fling back the bedclothes and jump up, Skinner touches his shoulder. Mulder shuts up instantly and looks at him. Skinner leans over and, almost shyly, kisses him. Mulder puts his arms around Skinner and falls backwards into the bed, pulling Skinner with him. They stare into each other's eyes again; Skinner knows that Mulder seeks reassurance that this is wanted, that he is desired. Skinner makes certain he finds it.

* * *

Euel isn't feeling well this morning. He sits grumpily at the kitchen table, refusing to speak. Roswitha has offered to make him his favorite breakfast, biscuits and gravy, and Skinner has made him a pot of strong Guatemalan coffee, but he just pulls his mouth into a petulant shape and sits hunched in his many sweaters.

Scully finally gets her medical bag from the trunk in Skinner's rental, and takes Euel's temperature and pulse. She peers into his eyes and ears and, after a little pleading and bullying, down his throat. Finally, she rests her hand on his shoulder and sits down next to him.

"What is it, Euel?" she asks, not in her pathologist voice and not in her federal-agent-interrogating-a-witness voice, but as a much younger friend. She realizes he has tears in his watery blue eyes, and he wipes roughly at his nose. She pulls a wadded kleenex from her jeans pocket and gives it to him; he smiles weakly and sniffs.

Roswitha sits on the other side of Euel, and he laughs in embarrassment. Wiping his eyes with the kleenex, he finally says, "I'm old. Nobody'll ever want to fuck me again."

Scully feels herself turn red, but it's too late to retreat into doctor mode. She hears Skinner shuffle his feet behind her, and knows that he knows that Euel had heard him and Mulder last night and this morning. The entire household had heard their concupiscent cries; she, with affection and nostalgia for something she's no longer sure will ever be in her life; Euel, with sorrow and regret .

"I don't want any breakfast, Rosie. I wanna go see Bob."

"Of course, sweetie. We'll go right away."

Bob. His sometime lover, now dying of cancer. Scully feels sorry not only for Euel, but for Skinner and Mulder. She knows them well enough to know they will feel guilty for making Euel aware of his mortality. She risks a glance at them; sure enough, Skinner is pink. Mulder's eyes are dark and sad. He won't meet her gaze, though Skinner does.. Scully thinks they are beautiful together, and smiles gently. She turns back to find Euel watching them as well; he heaves a great sigh and blows his nose vigorously.

"Let's go. You can leave me there while this guy fixes the house." Roswitha and Scully help Euel to his feet, and his daughter leads him to their car.

Scully watches Mulder and Skinner as they watch Roswitha and Euel slowly climb the stepping stones to the road above the house. They stand entwined, staring out the dutch door. She feels jealous of their physical attention to each other, of their obviously growing commitment to a change in their relationship with each other. She loves both men, and she knows they love her. But in her heart, she fears she will never stand so, with another's arm across her shoulders and her arm around his or her waist. She doesn't believe in psychic phenomenon, but she sees for herself a future empty of physical affection, as empty as a hollow tree. She remembers her dream from last night: sexual release while being beaten by someone unknown and unseen, someone who never touched her other than with a length of leather. She sighs deeply and the objects of her gaze release each other and turn. Mulder's eyes are red; she steps toward him and he embraces her. Looking past Mulder to Skinner, she says, "Let's go fix breakfast. Something old-fashioned and hot."

* * *

Will Wasserstein is the guy Scully has arranged to fix the house. His business card identifies him as a Medical Intuitive, and lists cleansings, feng shui, shiatsu, and reflexology as among his talents. He's a tall skinny white man, taller than Mulder, with a heavy New York accent and a small dream-catcher worn as an earring. But he's gentle and quite sweet; Scully likes him in spite of her skepticism. Mulder watches him closely; Skinner has his arms crossed and a frown on his face.

"Energy runs in channels," he explains to them, sipping a cup of peppermint tea. "Sometimes channels get blocked, just as arteries can in humans. We have to use interventions to clear the blockage. Blockages can happen for many reasons. For example, people's intense emotional states can create energy patterns that remain long after they leave. Sometimes they're negative patterns, sometimes stagnant. If the energy is powerful enough, it may manifest itself in a number of ways, including moving objects or appearing as people or animals.

"What I'll do first is simply walk through your home, trying to sense the energy patterns. I'd prefer to do that alone, although you may follow if you're quiet. Once I've found the center of energy, I'll have a better idea what to do next. I have some tools in the car I may use." He sets down his cup and shrugs his shoulders, as if loosening up. "Might as well get started. Please, don't speak to me until I speak to you again."

The four others in the kitchen exchange glances. Skinner buttons his sweater and goes outside; he's made his statement. Mulder looks conflicted; clearly he wants to be with Skinner, but also wants to observe. Finally, he follows Will, with Scully and Roswitha behind him.

They trail Will as he slowly walks through the house. He enters every room, pausing frequently. Sometimes he closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Occasionally he raises his hands, palms outward, fingers spread, as if touching something. He walks ever more slowly as he nears the blue room. Finally, he stops and stands for many minutes. He kneels and puts his face in his hands. Mulder and Scully look at each other in puzzlement, and Mulder shrugs elaborately. At long last, Will takes several deep breaths and stands. Then he enters the blue room.

None of the others follow. They stand in the hallway and watch as he very slowly moves through the room. He takes a step and stops; takes a step and stops. Scully's getting bored; already this has taken longer than she thought it would, and he hasn't begun the exorcism or cleansing or whatever. She's tempted to join Skinner outside, but feels obligated to stay and observe.

Finally, he turns to them. "This is the center of energy," he tells them with confidence. "I'll do my work from here. I'll need some things from my car. Mr. Mulder, would you help me carry them?" The two men stride off. Roswitha turns to Scully.

"What do you think?" she asks, genuine puzzlement in her face. Scully shakes her head. "Are we doing the right thing?"

"I don't know. I don't know." The two women stare at each other, then Roswitha leaves, apparently heading back to the kitchen. Scully hears the back door open and assumes she's gone to join Skinner in the garden. She realizes that she's alone in the house, and near the blue room. She hurries to the front door, to wait for Will and Mulder's return.

They are already coming down the steep path, each carrying a cardboard box. She opens the door to let them in; Mulder leads the way to the kitchen where they dump the boxes on the table. Scully sees that one contains bells and a gong. From the other, Will takes an ornately molded glass bottle full of a clear liquid, and what Scully believes is called a smudge stick. He also takes out the bells and strings them on his wrists, so with each move gentle chimes ring out. He opens the bottle and lights the smudge stick. With the bottle in one hand and the smoldering smudge stick in the other, he returns to the blue room.

Still obediently silent, Mulder and Scully follow him. This time, however, he shakes his head at them and, once in the blue room, shuts the door. They stand in the hallway, listening; the bells ring continuously, and Scully thinks she can smell the smudge. Shyly, Mulder takes her hand, and she steps nearer to him. He's warm in the cold house; her friend, her very best friend, embarking on some new stage of his life. Looking up into his face, she appreciates again his intelligence and sensitivity, his kindness, his gentle way of being in the world. She feels a rush of love for him that's almost physical in its intensity. She decides she'll fucking kill Skinner if he ever hurts Mulder, and smiles at the absurdity of the thought. Skinner would kill himself before hurting Mulder, she knows. They'll be all right.

The bells stop ringing and she looks again at the door. They wait. In silence and love, they wait.

* * *

"This is holy water," Will explains later, as he's packing up his equipment. "Saint Teresa of Avila said that, in her experience, nothing worked as well, and certainly I've found that to be true. Although I'm not Catholic, the Catholics seem to know best how to handle these situations.

"I don't believe the energy in this house was evil, but it was negative. However, before I go, I will perform a small part of the basic exorcism. An exorcism really is just another way to liberate spirit. So although I think everything will be all right, this is a nice way to close. If you will stand in a circle and hold hands," and he takes Mulder's in his left and Scully's in his right. Mulder takes Skinner's, who takes Roswitha's, who takes Scully's. Standing in a circle in the large kitchen, they all look at Will. He seems strong and confident and filled with a strange power. He begins to speak, in a deep voice:

"In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord, strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God, of Blessed Michael the Archangel, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil.

"God arises; His enemies are scattered and those who hate Him flee before Him. As smoke is driven away, so are they driven; as wax melts before the fire, so the wicked perish at the presence of God.

"We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects; in the Name and by the power of Our Lord, may you be snatched away and driven from the Church of God and from the souls made to the image and likeness of God.

"Stoop beneath the all-powerful Hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy and terrible Name of Jesus, this Name which causes hell to tremble, this Name to which the Virtues, Powers and Dominations of heaven are humbly submissive, this Name which the Cherubim and Seraphim praise unceasingly repeating: Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord. Amen."

Scully and Skinner dutifully echo his "amen," and smile at each other. Roswitha pulls out a checkbook, but Will refuses payment. "Call me in a week," he says, handing her his card. "If things are better, then I'll take your money.

"As for you," he turns to Scully, "I have a message." He puts his hands on her shoulders and bends over, to whisper in her ear. Mulder watches closely, apprehensive for his friend. Her face remains serene, however; she thanks Will and shakes his hand. Will then shakes all their hands, and Roswitha shows him out. Mulder helps him carry the boxes back to his car.

Skinner turns to look at Scully, who blushes. "It's personal," she says.

Roswitha returns, smiling. "Well, he says we shouldn't have anymore problems. And you know, I don't think we will. I had the strangest dream last night, that whatever was here has decided to go. Just like that.

"I don't know how to thank you. I'm not sure how, but I think your presence here made the difference. Thank you." The phone rings, and Roswitha heads to the kitchen to answer it. Skinner and Scully look at each other as they overhear Roswitha's tone, but not the words as she speaks on the phone; she is distressed and cries out.

"He's dead!" Roswitha appears in the hallway, wide-eyed and frantic. Scully puts her arms around her. "Euel. That was the nursing home. He was with Bob and just collapsed. The doctor there pronounced him.

"What should I do? What will I do?" She turns to Scully and says, "You're a doctor; what should I do?" Scully hugs her, and turns to Skinner. He looks stricken; he'd liked Euel. Mulder returns from his errand; he immediately realizes that something's wrong. "My father's gone," she whispers.

After a moment, Skinner says, "We'll need to go the nursing home, Roswitha. Get your sweater; I'll take you. Mulder and Scully, you stay here. Let Roswitha's clients know what's happened. Roswitha, do you have an appointment book?" She nods and points toward her office. "They'll take care of it. Now, you come with me." She obediently takes a sweater from the back of a chair in the kitchen and follows him up the path to his rental.

Scully and Mulder stare at each other, in dismay and grief. Scully feels responsible, heavy, troubled. Mulder silently puts an arm across her shoulders, and they go into Roswitha's office to begin calling her clients.

* * *

Two days later, the house is full of people; friends of Roswitha and Euel, come to pay their respects. They've come from Rio Nido, Guerneville, Forestville, Santa Rosa, Garberville, San Francisco -- from cities and towns up and down the coast. They've brought food and wine and homemade beer; cigar boxes of neatly rolled home-grown; pictures and mementos of Euel's life. Frederick from the San Francisco field office is there, and Will Wasserstein is back; Roswitha has asked him to say a few words as they sprinkle Euel's ashes in his marijuana garden.

The crowd moves out to the backyard, down to the plot where Mulder found Skinner and Euel smoking. Roswitha carries a simple urn: Euel's earthly remains. Bob follows her, very slowly and carefully, supported by a nurse from the home; he has to use a walker to get around. He's as thin and frail as a piece of rice paper, and trembles like a reed in the wind.

The friends stand two and three deep, surrounding the plot. The scrawny plants won't amount to much, Skinner knows, but Euel loved them. They symbolized an earlier time for him, a time of vigor and passion and pursuit. He's glad that Roswitha has decided to put Euel's ashes here, among the redwoods where he'd spent most of his life. It's fitting.

Someone has lit a number and is passing it through the crowd. Everyone takes a hit, including the federal agents. Scully sucks it in like a pro, pinching the joint carefully; Mulder watches with amazement. He's much less proficient, and has to clear his throat afterward. Skinner takes an enormous hit, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. This may be the last time he gets high on dope before he retires, at which time he plans to plant his own little garden. Euel has been an inspiration to him, a model for growing old.

When the joint is smoked down, Roswitha opens the urn and drops it into the ashes. Everyone laughs, approving the gesture. She holds the urn tightly, head down, a rueful smile on her face. Then she lifts her head and shakes her bangs out of her face. The crowd quiets expectantly.

"This was my father, Euel. Not the easiest father a girl could have, but not the worst by a long shot. I loved him, and he loved me. I respected him; I respected the way he lived. He chose a difficult life, but never compromised his behavior or his belief. I'm glad to know that he'll be here, in his garden. Near me."

She turns to Will, who smiles at her. "Everyone knew Euel Joller," he says conversationally, "He was hard to miss. He was well-liked and respected. He was funny and passionate and hard-working. He served his country in Korea and was decorated for his bravery. Pre-Stonewall, he chose to be out, and risked life and limb by doing so. He spoke the truth as he saw it, something that's difficult to do in any age. Most importantly, he was loved."

Bob, holding tightly to his walker, is crying openly; his attendant has his arms around him. Roswitha looks tired and strained. Scully is weeping into a kleenex. Skinner feels tears in his own eyes; he puts his arm around Mulder and leans against him. Could he say that? Could Skinner claim never to have compromised? He knows that the answer is no. But Mulder could. Mulder will. He is honored to know Mulder, and to be loved by him. Mulder puts his arm around Skinner's waist; Skinner hears him swallow loudly.

Looking around at the mourners, Will continues. "I'm not sure what kind of afterlife Euel believed in, if any. But this is what I think, and I hope it brings Roswitha some comfort:

The Road goes ever on and on   
Down from the door where it began.   
Now far ahead the Road has gone,   
And I must follow if I can,   
Pursuing it with eager feet,   
Until it joins some larger way   
Where many paths and errands meet.   
And whither then? I cannot say."

After a moment more, Roswitha upends the urn and gently sprinkles its contents into the garden. There's no wind in this valley, so the fine grey particles fall straight down, a rain of ashes and chips of bone. When the urn is empty, the witnesses stand a few minutes more, awkward, not knowing what to do next. Then a heavy young woman, dressed and made up as a Goth, begins to sing. Her ethereal soprano floats up through the redwoods to dissipate into the fog above them. Skinner recognizes the song: Loreena McKennitt's "Full Circle." The tears in his eyes threaten to spill; he wipes them hastily on his sleeve. Mulder turns his head to look at him; there are tears in his eyes as well. Mulder reaches with his right hand across Skinner's body and takes hold of his left shoulder, then gently turns him into his arms. They embrace in the chilly fog of a redwood summer. Skinner rests his head on Mulder's shoulder, a gesture he hasn't made since he was a child. One day, his ashes will be scattered as well. If he were to die tomorrow, there would be no such crowd of friends and mourners. A few members of his immediate family, a few co-workers, and Scully and Mulder. No one else.

The song ends, released by the beautiful voice. For a moment more, the crowd stands silently, then Roswitha, wiping her eyes, says, "Please, come into the house for coffee." She walks around the garden plot, passing Skinner and Mulder as they embrace. She stops and rubs Skinner's back. "He liked you very much, Walt. I'm so glad his last days were spent with you." The kind words are too much for Skinner; humiliated, he gasps for breath, tears spilling from his eyes. His chest hurts, he can't breathe, his nose runs. He shuts his eyes and feels Mulder's comforting hands on his face. Roswitha pats his back again and then moves toward the house. Soon, only Mulder, Scully, and Skinner remain.

Finally, Skinner can catch his breath. He wipes his eyes again on his sleeve, then takes a kleenex from Scully and blows his nose. He's embarrassed by his show of emotion, but sees that their eyes, too, are wet, their faces kind and understanding. He takes a deep breath and rolls his head back, sniffing. Far above, the fog has begun to attenuate; far above, he can see the distant blue.

* * *

All around them, three-hundred-foot tall redwood trees stand as they have for a thousand years. Mulder recalls what Euel had told him: that redwoods have no taproot, only a thick, interlacing network of tiny roots just below the surface of the ground. Each tree needs the others around it to help it remain standing. When one falls, the others will, too. In the silent stand of immense elder trees, Skinner again embraces Mulder, who intuits that the gesture is as much gratitude as love. He caresses Skinner's face, then turns to Scully, who watches shyly. He reaches for her and she steps into their arms. They stand interlaced in the sweet-smelling garden.

* * *

"I must say too how beautiful human society seems to me, especially in those attenuated forms so characteristic of the West -- isolated towns and single houses which sometimes offer only the merest, barest amenities: light, warmth, supper, familiarity. We have colonized a hostile planet, and we must staunch every opening where cold and dark might pour through and destroy the false climates we make, the tiny simulations of forgotten seasons beside the Euphrates, or in Eden. At a certain level housekeeping is a regime of small kindnesses, which, together, make the world salubrious, savory and warm. I think of the acts of comfort offered and received within a household as precisely sacramental."  
\--Marilynne Robinson, "My Western Roots"

**Author's Note:**

> Readers familiar with the Russian River area will recognize that I have slightly altered the topography, conflating it with the Eel River farther north. I tried to stay true to the exquisite beauty of the region, though, and to convey my love for it.
> 
> It recently occurred to me that I've never acknowledged the assistance I've gained from Pellinor's "Deep Background" website. Let me take this opportunity to thank her for all her hard work. It was from her I learned that California FBI agents refer to female agents as "breast feds."
> 
> My information on poltergeist activity comes from stories my mother's family told me about their experiences during the Depression, and from the books _Poltergeists_, by Alan Gauld and A. D. Cornell (Boston: Routledge &amp; Kegan Paul, 1979) and _The Haunted Mind_, by Nandor Fodor (NY: Garrett Publications, 1959).
> 
> For Roswitha's knowledge as a counselor, I turned to _Contemporary Human Sexuality_, by Jeffrey S. Turner and Laurna Rubinson (NJ: Prentice Hall, 1993), and _Counseling Gay Men and Lesbians_, by Sari H. Dworkin and Fernando J. Gutierrez (Alexandria, VA: American Counseling Association, 1992).
> 
> The exorcism ritual is adapted from Sheldon Norberg's work, and from one published by H.H. Pope Leo XIII.
> 
> The poem Will Wasserstein recites at Euels' funeral is, of course, Bilbo Baggin's song from _The Lord of the Rings_.
> 
> * * *
> 
> "Full Circle" by Loreena McKennitt
> 
> Stars were falling deep in the darkness   
> as prayers rose softly, petals at dawn   
> And as I listened, your voice seemed so clear   
> so calmly you were calling your god.
> 
> Somewhere the sun rose o'er dunes in the desert  
> such was the stillness, I ne'er felt before   
> Was this the question, pulling, pulling, pulling you  
> in your heart, in your soul, did you find rest there?
> 
> Elsewhere a snowfall, the first in the winter   
> covered the ground as the bells filled the air   
> You in your robes sang, calling, calling, calling him   
> in your heart, in your soul, did you find peace there?


End file.
